RSVP: For When He Comes Home
by LadyFangs
Summary: Expanded Version of "When He Comes" feat. Barney Ross/OC. Their love is a work in progress. Neither would say its easy. But both think its worth it. (Story is still in progress, I've not abandoned it- I have just been extremely slow in posting).
1. Chapter 1

**Welcome Home**

**By AquaSoulSis aka LadyFangs**

The faint sound of running water is what let's her know he's home. Slowly, as if a fog, it snakes its way into her consciousness, rousing her from her sleep. She rolls over and peers at the clock—its glowing red fluorescent light stinging her eyes in the near-darkness of the room.

The numbers are hazy at first, and she closes her eyes, and opens again to refocus.

3:13 AM.

It's still dark outside and the only sound in the house is that of running water. It's not loud. Rather faint, enclosed within the pipes of the walls. But the house is more than 100 years old, and the pipes almost half of that. It's a muted version of a rushing waterfall.

With a quiet yawn she stretches out in the bed, the sheets moving and twisting to her will, and with a sigh she rises, letting them fall as they may as she walks out of the room, down the hall and slowly down the stairs.

It's cold tonight. And of course there's always a window open. He's lectured her more than once about that, always worried about phantom robbers and kidnappers or worse.

She knows he's right. But it's a habit now- her always leaving a window open. She likes the smell of the salt air, the straining sound of trumpets carried to them blocks away, and late-night revelers clinging to the last few moments of lucidity before the spirits lay claim to them in their beds.

As she reaches the stairs the air blows her way, caressing her nipples, making the sensitive flesh around them grow hard. The wooden floor is cold on her feet, sending tingles through her legs and she can't help but wrap her arms around her nude body to break the chill. It's just a moment, but there have always been moments like these.

Her feet reach the bottom of the landing and she turns right down the side hall that takes her to the door of the guest bedroom.

There's a bathroom inside and she opens the door and walks in—seeing the illuminated outline and sound of rushing water coming from another door on the left side of the wall.

It's almost ritual now, this thing they do. She can't remember how or when it started, but she understands the why.

He doesn't like for her to see the blood.

Sometimes, it's his. Oftentimes, it's not. Every time when she sees it, she looks at him, and she sees the guilt and regret in his eyes.

He's told her before that he doesn't regret his actions. What he regrets, he says, are his choices. Because now, he says, he doesn't have any. And no matter how hard she tries to say otherwise, she can't seem to convince him that he does.

Barney's been in the business longer than she's been alive, and while, once upon a time, she might have dreamed of a happily ever after, now she's just grateful for every day she gets to see him alive.

She's now standing in front of the closed door, the handle is warm from the steam heating the other side, it's tricking out from the bottom, warming her cold toes. With a deep breath, she pushes it open and walks inside.

The shower itself is a stand-alone unit, all slated tiles, stainless steel and glass. It's so large that it takes up half of the far wall. It's its own room within a room, designed by its current occupant.

She knows he hears her. After decades of violence, of death—he's always on guard. His back is to her, as the water rains down from the ceiling, snaking its way down the back of his head, his neck, around his shoulders, and down his spine, between his legs…

He's resting his head against the wall. One hand planted firmly on the tiled surface, eyes closed. She opens the door and steps inside with him, coming to rest behind him, letting the hot water pelt her cold skin.

He doesn't move, but his chest expands with each, measured breath. And when she wraps her arms gently around his waist, and lays her head against his back—she feels the sharp intake of breath, and a tremble. And its then she knows, he's hurt.

Her chest tightens, flooded with heat, and her eyes sting with tears she tries to blink away.

With measured strength, he takes his free hand and wraps it around hers still gently at his waist. But he doesn't pull them away.

It's his silent surrender. Her sign that he needs her—that this time, he's hurt bad. So she slowly moves around him, until he's facing her, and its then she can see the full extent of his injuries. One eye, swollen shut. A cut, still bleeding, across his check. A busted lip. And angry red splotches across his chest that she knows from experience will begin to change colors—darker and darker still.

With one good eye, he looks down at her as she begins to take the towel lying on the seat and lather it. She doesn't look at him in the eye, but he watches her silently as she begins to gently wash him, her hands on his arms, his chest, his back, his legs.

"Izzy…"

His voice is like a quiet rumble, soft and deep and she stops her movements to look up at him.

"You're the prettiest thing I've seen all month." A corner of his lip tips up in a smile, and it warms her. She can't help but smile a little in return as she stands on her tip toes to kiss him gently, careful not to touch the injured side.

"You look like shit." She says, wrapping her arms around his waist again and laying her head on his chest to hear the strong thrum of his heart.

He chuckles, and then winces.

The soap has washed off the mud, the blood, and the water runs clear. When she's sure he can make it, she turns off the water and steps out the shower. It's only a few paces to the door, but she can tell by the way he walks, limping slightly and slouched over, that every one of those steps is a fight of will.

Wordlessly, she hands him a towel from the adjoining linen closet, and takes one too. She has to help him, but in these rare moments, he doesn't resist it.

They're both still damp, but it's okay. The bed is only feet away and she knows it's a good idea, because, in Barney's current state, he's not making it up the stairs.

She guides him gently to the bed and pulls back the covers and he sits with a pained grunt, breathing heavily before finally lifting his legs up too and lying down.

Now she can get to work patching his wounds.

Isobel's not a nurse. She has no medical degree. She didn't even major in biology and when she was in school; she couldn't bear to dissect the frogs. But she's learned how to do stiches, how to reset dislocated limbs, how to apply the heat-packs and ice packs and check for broken bones.

She does this on Barney's prostrate form. He keeps it all in his med pack, which is sitting on the floor where it fell with the rest of his clothes.

First, she checks his swollen eye and to her relief, she's pleased to see that other than the impact, and the swelling, its fine. He verifies that by following her finger back and forth. No concussion.

Then, it's to the gash in his check. She inspects the wound, grateful that it has finally stopped bleeding, and with the exacting hands of a surgeon, proceeds to push the skin together to determine how deep is the cut—whether to use tape or needle. Ultimately, it's needle.

No anesthesia. But this has been so many times before that he's used to that particular kind of pain, and doesn't complain. In fact, judging by the evenness of the rise and fall of his chest, and light snore—he's asleep already.

But her work continues.

She gently dabs at his lip with ointment. And she's greeted by a hiss and a glare from his one good eye. Her lips touch his again she smooths it over with a kiss.

Her fingers run down his chest, across the brightly colored tattoos that weave across his skin—red, green blue, yellow, and black, orange, purple—it's a work of art on a work of art, and she knows the artist. A friend. She considers him too.

Satisfied, she yawns and rises to walk around to the over side of the bed to slide in behind him.

She takes one final look at the digital clock sitting on the nightstand next to her.

5:46 AM.

The glowing red numbers begin to blur and sleep once again sets in. She moves until she feels his body heat at her back, her curves fitting like a puzzle in his larger frame.

* * *

**Author's Note:** _Thank you for reading. Please remember, reviews, for better or worse, are the only way we fanfic authors get paid._


	2. Chapter 2

He wakes to a dull headache, and when he tries to stretch, his body burns in protest. His arm is numb, his chest hot and inflamed, raw to the touch.

But when he looks down and sees her with his one good eye—all of those aches get just a bit duller.

The uninjured corner of his mouth tips up just slightly, and he suppresses a grunt as he adjusts his body in order to pull her against him. Under the blankets, warm skin meets warm skin and though she doesn't wake—in her sleep she adjusts herself a bit more, and makes the one uninjured part of him rise in greeting.

She's still on his right arm, but his left one is free, and he uses it to brush the curls off and away from her face, his calloused fingers tracing the curve of her neck, the outline of her collarbone, the roundness of her shoulders.

Barney feels that familiar rush of emotion that always comes with her—and he resists the desire to squeeze her tightly. She's soft in his arms, her brown skin warm to his touch. He's protective, he knows. More like selfish and possessive.

He tries not to squeeze her, and keeps her cradled in his arms, lowering his face to her hair to inhale the scent of Shea and cocoa, and lavender.

He's never been good with words associated with emotions, but he hopes that he's shown her how much he cares. There have been times he's hesitated before coming in, worried that it would be emptiness and cold and darkness on the other side of the door when he turns the key. To this day, a part of him still prays there won't be another man in her bed. But he wouldn't be able to blame her if she did.

After a while, the rush below his waist subsides, and slowly, carefully, he untangles himself from her.

He needs to get up—needs to move. It's always worse when his body has time to settle. It becomes stiff, the pain grows and festers.

She shudders at the loss of his body heat, and he brings the blankets up around her and tucks her back in. When he's home, she's a heavy sleeper, and he knows she'll stay like this for a few more hours yet. It's early, not yet 7 a.m. He twists and turns, rolling his shoulders, cracking his neck as he pads his way across the room with a stealth and grace acquired by years of practice. He's virtually soundless. The door closes behind him without so much as a creak or click.

There's another bathroom on the main floor, and it's here where he steps and turns on the light to get a morning-after view of himself.

Sixty-six. And today he feels every bit of it. Barney looks at himself in the mirror with the practiced eye of an impartial judge, running his fingers through his hair. Still thick—he's thankful for that – but streaked with gray. Dark, haunted eyes stare back at him, one swollen shut, purple and black. His eyes are droopy, doleful, with deep bags underneath, and lips turned down in a frown.

When had he gotten old?

Angry red welts splotch across the left side of his face, and his chest has begun following suit in a combination of colors. His lip is swollen, but considering he's been shot, punched, kicked and chained—it could be worse.

Opening the cabinet on the wall, he reaches in and pulls out a black eye patch. Through experience he knows it'll help with the bruising… give or take a few days, of course.

He reaches in again, and pulls out a roll of athletic tape and slowly, methodically begins to wrap it around his chest, as a brace.

His legs are stiff, but as he walks around the house, the limp begins to subside. The muscle in his thigh is probably bruised, but it's nothing he can't handle. Slowly he climbs the stairs and walks down the long hall. It's instinct, what he's doing.

Checking for imagined dangers, unseen threats. Another habit he can't seem to break himself of.

His routine surveillance is momentarily interrupted when he reaches the room at the end of the hall. His hand pauses on the knob. It's one he can't bear to enter. The one that holds too much pain. A reminder of a time when he had two choices, and failed.

She didn't blame him, but he did. If only he'd been here…if only he'd stayed that one time.

But regrets are a thing of the past. What's done is done and he can't change it.

Barney Ross finds himself in moments like this, contemplating his life and his mortality. He's fully aware that well into his sixth decade, his clock is counting down. But there's something inside of him that won't let him quit. No matter how high the cost.

He wonders what she sees in him, a man more broken and scarred and carrying more baggage than a transatlantic Pan Am flight. He's asked her this before. After all, he's not stupid. Age wasn't just a number—it was a psychological condition and he just knew she would be better suited for a younger man.

What could a woman, smart, successful and beautiful, want with him?

He had believed he had nothing to offer her, nothing to give.

But that was years ago. And for once in his life, Barney was pleased he'd been so very, very wrong.

* * *

_Author's Note: This story is complete, and there will be frequent updates._


	3. Chapter 3

**Part III**

She wakes to the smell of bacon. It wafts in from the kitchen, tickling her nose and making her mouth water on instinct.

While she's not a fan of pork—she's got a soft spot for bacon, and Barney knows it. Eyes still closed, she stretches out across the large bed, finding the spot next to her empty. But today, that's a good thing. Because she knows exactly where he is and what he's doing.

Her clothes aren't down here, so instead she rises and picks up one of the thick, fluffy purple towels from the floor where they fell the night before, and wraps it securely around her body. Her hair is a tangled mess, and she knows it's going to be painful to comb, but it's okay.

She's got a smile on her face and a bounce in her step. Before she leaves the bedroom, she tips back into the bathroom, finds the mouthwash, takes a rise, and heads to the kitchen.

Barney's there shirtless, his chest wrapped, clad in sweatpants, his feet bare on the wooden floor. He's focused intently on the stove in front of him, one hand on a handle working a skillet full of eggs, the other holding a spatula and flipping bacon to make sure it's fried hard, like she likes it.

And it's a good thing he's cooking too, because if he wasn't they'd starve. No one could ever claim any kind of culinary proficiency on her part. Oh sure, there were a few things she could do—a quick stir fry here, spaghetti there- the basics, but Barney…he was lord of the range.

It was a hidden talent, and one he didn't advertise. After all, in looking at him, tall, dark, slightly surly—who'd ever peg it? She had certainly been surprised the first time he'd cooked for her. It wasn't planned.

In fact, it was early in their relationship—only a few months in, and she'd called herself preparing them a special dinner in her home. She'd researched and prepared—bought all new cooking supplies—a grater, a blender, a whisk, a food processor.

And yet, by the time he arrived, she was near tears in the kitchen, batter splattered all over—on the sink, on the stove, on the cabinets, in her hair…

He'd laughed! It was deep and rough—like it was rarely used, but his eyes twinkled mischievously. She'd only felt worse and turned away from him—hurt that all her efforts had gone down the tubes. Once he got over the humor of the situation he wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her close to him, her chest against his back. He'd whispered in her ear that he appreciated the effort, and kissed her on her neck, the softness of his lips by her ear spreading warmth throughout her body.

Then, he'd proceeded to tell her to clean herself up, that he'd take care of dinner.

It took her almost an hour to shower and wash the batter from her hair, and instead of drying it, she simply braided it into two long pigtails to let it air dry. When she came back downstairs, Barney was finished cooking, the table was set with two bowls of the pesto primavera pasta that she'd tried, and failed to make.

Now, he was at it again—this time with French toast, bacon and eggs. He looked up at her, smiled slightly and kept working as she walked past him to one of the cabinets and pulled out plates.

Mornings like this require few words. They now know each other so well that much of their interaction is by touches, and looks, half-smiles and comfortable silence. It's a peace they cherish, because they never know when he's going to be called away. It's a peace forged from years of learning how to communicate, how to work together, and how to love.


	4. Chapter 4

**Part IV**

Late Summer in New Orleans. The humidity in the air clung to her brown skin, making the light, pale yellow sundress she wore limp against her figure. It clung uncomfortably to her in all the wrong places. She had broken out in a sweat and was at present, wiping her damp hair out of her face with one hand and jiggling the gear shift aggressively with the other. The carefully pressed curls were beginning to revert to their natural tightness – all that money spent to straighten it going down the tubes.

A line of cars in back of her honked and snorted as she frantically stomped on the clutch and gas alternately, trying desperately to make the car move.

It choked, sputtered and lurched in protest, giving nothing but a nasty backfire. Finally, the cars just started going around her as she was finally able to pull the car over to the side of the road in a grassy plane.

On the verge of tears, but too stubborn to cry, she slumped down in the cracked leather seats of her newly-acquired and seriously decrepit 1970 Dodge Charger. Now that the car was off, the heat was stifling, and there was absolutely no breeze moving outside.

The streets of New Orleans were small and narrow—good enough for single-lane only traffic patterns. Finally, she got up the nerve to open the car door and ignore the nasty glares of other drivers as they shot accusing stares at the person responsible for the car that had just created a massive traffic jam on Toledano.

Ignoring the honks and beeps, and the occasional leer, Isobel made her way to the other side of the car, away from the traffic and took out her cell phone to dial her insurance company.

* * *

"Goddamn it's hot in here! Barney when are you gonna install an a/c unit in this sweatshop?" The booming voice of his best friend rattled off the various pieces of metal strewn about the garage as Barney emerged from under the hood of the old truck, its hoses and contents spilling out.

"And what am I going to cool off? The outside?" Barney wiped his hands off on an old oil rag before walking over to shake Tool's hand and give his friend a slap on the back.

"What brings you in here, Tool? How's the studio comin'?"

"It's coming," Tool said, walking around the garage a minute before finding a spare tire, sitting down and propping his worn leather boots up on a tool cabinet. His leather pants squeaked as he sat on the rubber, his swede vest swung open, revealing a heavily tattooed chest, skin bronzed and slightly rubbery-looking from decades of exposure, and the new beginnings of a beer belly emerging from a still somewhat in-shape physique.

The shop's owner cast a sideways glance at his guest, before walking around the truck to a small fridge tucked in a corner. He walked back around with a beer in each hand and offered one to his friend before sitting down on an old folding chair nearby.

They lapsed into a comfortable silence as they nursed the beers for a moment.

"So, how long we going to do this?" Barney said, taking another swig of his stout. Tool sighed and lazily ran a hand through his hair.

"I told you already, brother, I'm out. That last mission—that was it for me."

"Huh."

Another swig of beer.

"You started lookin' for new recruits yet?" Tool asked.

"Got a few prospects."

"Oh?" Tool asked trying to sound nonchalant.

"Yep." Barney replied, deliberately keeping one-word answers.

They'd been inactive now for more than a year, the original team disbanding after their last mission had gone terribly wrong. And while they were eventually successful, it had cost valuable friendships, and ultimately for Tool—the decision to call it quits.

Barney had heard through the channels that their former Teammate, Trench Mauser, had already formed a new team. _Well, better for him_, Barney thought. It was because of Trench that they had almost gotten killed.

Against the orders of he and Tool, Trench, who had always felt that because he was older than the rest, should be the one in charge. And his resentment toward Barney had festered over the years until he'd decided he was no longer taking orders. The result: a tripped alarm, an entire army on their asses, one teammate dead, and both he and Tool getting shot.

They'd been lucky to get out alive. And of course, Trench was nowhere to be found in the ensuing quagmire.

So yeah, he was bitter about it. Anyone would be after getting screwed over by a person who was supposed to have your back.

After that, it was time for a vacation. The bullet had gone through his side, missing vital organs but causing a shitload of damage that was, judging by the sharp pains that still plagued him when he turned suddenly, still healing.

Barney had gone back to his shop in the Central Business District and Tool had decided to open up a bar and tattoo salon a few blocks over, down in the Quarter.

"So who're you lookin' at?" Tool asked.

Before Barney could answer, a dark shadow blocked the sunlight from the garage and the sound of a rattling engine greeted them. A tow-truck had just pulled in.

Barney got up and walked out of a side door to go around the garage to the front and see what was attached. Tool followed.

The driver was unloading a black, beat-up Dodge Charger that had seen better days.

"You Barney Ross?" He asked, as Barney nodded, still looking at the car with one eyebrow raised.

"Good." The driver turned and moved to the cab of the truck and opened the passenger door. Ross and Tool watched as two red and white polka dot encased toes peeped out, followed by a set of long, smooth brown legs, and ultimately, the rest of a yellow-clad figure.

"Well goddamn," Tool whispered nudging Barney and letting out a low whistle as a dark-haired woman in a yellow dress clinging wetly against her skin walked over to them.

"Mr. Ross?" She asked looking at Tool and then to Barney.

Seeing the leer that had begun to cross his friend's face, Barney quickly spoke up.

"That's me. What can I do for you? That your car?" He said, angling his head in the direction of the Charger, now sitting in front of the garage. The tow-truck driver had already pulled away.

She glared at the car a moment with a look of pure hatred before turning back to Barney, and sighing with resignation.

"Unfortunately, yes." She said.

"Why unfortunately?" Barney asked, moving to get a closer look at the vehicle appraising its condition.

He'd always had a thing for this particular make and model. It was all steel, and built like a tank. He was old enough to remember what it was like when the model was new—back when American cars were known for their powerful engines and aggressive builds.

The charger was an especially gorgeous piece of American craftsmanship. The body emulated the sleek curves of a woman and that, coupled with her power, made her a car everyone wanted to own. Shit, he even drove one once himself.

"I say 'unfortunately' because, as of today, this car and I are no longer friends. I just want whatever is wrong with it fixed, so I can sell it."

"You want to sell _this_?" He said, turning to face her again, eyebrows raised.

"Well, what else am I going to do with it? It was left to me by my grandfather's brother. I have a car of my own already."

At this, Barney couldn't help but snort.

"Let me guess. You drive a Prius." He said.

"How'd you know?" She said. At the surprised look on her face, Barney started laughing.

"Call it an educated guess."

She crossed her arms and pursed her lips at him and Barney realized he'd probably just insulted her.

"I'm sorry", he said, sticking out his hand. "I didn't mean to insult you. I'll fix your car for you so you can sell it, Ms.…"

She looked at his hand, and then at him, before unfolding her arms and taking his hand.

"Isobel Rannick."

"Barney Ross." He shook her hand, noticing how her fingers were long and slender, but still much smaller compared to his own, rough and calloused ones.

Just then, two more cars pulled up, including a Prius.

"And there's my rental," she said, a smile playing at the side of her lips as two men dressed in the pastel shirt and khaki standard of customer service representatives, climbed out and began walking toward them.

"Guess I was right about that Prius."

This earned him a resounding laugh from his new customer that culminated in a snort, which made him grin.

"Tell you what Ms. Rannick," he started.

"Isobel, please."

"Okay, Isobel. I'll fix your car. But before you set your mind on selling it, once I fix it, drive it a while, and if you don't like how it feels, I'll buy it from you."

She looked at him again, this time, the surprise making her dark green eyes light up. Her mouth tipped up in a tremulous smile and he couldn't help but grin back at her.

"Is that a deal Mr. Ross?" She asked, sounding sly. He offered her his hand again and she took it.

"It's a deal."

With that, he turned and walked back into the garage while she dealt with the rental car people, and came back a short while later with service slips in hand. He took down her information and handed her his card.

"I'll give you a call with the parts, and what all it's going to need. I'm not going to promise you it'll be cheap—the car is pretty old, but I'm going to make sure it's fair. I'll take care of you."

The last part came out before he could stop the words but she didn't seem to catch it and was already climbing into her rented Prius.

"Thank you Mr. Ross!" She called as she backed up. "That's my cell phone I wrote down. It's the best way to reach me."

And with that, Isobel Rannick, the woman with the clingy, yellow-dress, drove off, leaving Barney standing in the middle of the driveway, service slips still in hand. Tool coming back out from wherever he'd been and came to stand behind him to watch the tail of the Prius fade away.

"Now that -" Tool said, "-was a damn fine piece of ass."

Barney rolled his eyes at his friend and walked back into his shop.

"What?" Tool asked walking behind him and flopping back down in his previous spot. "You can't say you didn't notice those legs, those hips, that ass…"

Barney shot a mocking look at the older man, and crossed his arms. Tool snorted.

"Don't give me that self-righteous look Barney. You ain't blind."


	5. Chapter 5

**She comes to his shop once a week to check up on his progress. Each time, he finds himself looking forward to her calls. It's usually during the lunch hour, when his one employee is out. It's the time he likes the most…**

Today just feels different. He hears her before he sees her. He's on his back, underneath the car, when the click of heels on concrete announce her arrival.

He rolls out from under the car and is greeted by almond-shaped brown eyes staring down from above him. His eyes wander from her face, to her neck, to her breasts and quickly back up again. He hopes she didn't notice that.

"Greetings, Mr. Ross." She smiles when she speaks, and her voice is low and throaty. He stands up, and wipes his grease-smeared hands on his jeans, splotched with oil.

Today, Isobel has on a white tank top, and army green shorts that display her long, curvy legs beautifully, and a black belt. The belt, innocuous by itself, is low around her hips. Barney is trying really hard to pretend he doesn't notice those hips.

Instead, he clears his throat and they fall into their now-familiar routine. He shows her the work done so far, how he's buffed out the rusted spots, filled them in with putty. He shows her what's going on with the engine—wide open, various coils and hoses bursting out, holes where pistons should be—over the last two months, he's explained what part does what—acting as automotive instructor, and by now, she knows what he's talking about.

They compare and shop for parts he finds online, in junk yards. Some are easier than others.

Right now, the Charger is nothing but a metal frame on tires. It's hard to see what the end result will be, but it's getting there.

She's standing right next to him as he points down into the engine. She's so close he feels the heat from her body on his skin. Her arm brushes his.

He can tell she doesn't quite see where he's pointing so he places his arms gently on her shoulders, and moves her to stand in front of him. He takes her hand, moves it to the particular place he wants her to see. But now her back is to his chest, and he's behind her, and he and the other him become acutely aware of just how close she is when, she bends over, and her rear end presses right up to his groin.

It's completely accidental. But fate always has its own agenda.

He wants her. His body knows it. Now, she knows it too. But she doesn't pull away.

Instead, they stay like that—both holding their breath, waiting for the other to pull away. She breaks first, and turns to face him. He wraps an arm around her waist, pulling her close. Her arms are around his neck and the first time he kisses her is like getting high for the first time. It's intense and searing and…

Thank GOD he lives just upstairs. Because it's happening and he's going with it.

He picks her up and carries her. After years of lifting heavy artillery and enduring backbreaking assignments—she weights fairly little in comparison.

It's the smile of welcome he loves, the invitation, the pleading and acceptance of yes that he's craving. He takes her through and lays her gently on the bed. The kisses get harder, the clothes remove themselves, and soon he's on top, and her legs part to let him in.

It dawns on both of them that this…is new. Neither are virgins, but this…feeling, the intensity, is new.

He slides between her legs, getting closer to her entrance and then—she winces.

He tenses.

"I'm sorry, it's just—um…"

She's a bit flustered, and then – he gets it.

"It's been a while for me too," he says, before lowering his head to her neck and kissing her there, as she wraps her arms around his neck and shoulders and he pushes in.

She gasps, closes her eyes, and he lets out an involuntary groan as he eases inside, his girth and length, filling her.

Isobel bites her lip and tries not to cry out. It's been a long, time, too long, and he isn't small by any measure. It hurts, and he seems to get that. So he eases out gently, and waits for her to breathe again.

Slowly, they set their own pace—awkward at first, then quickly synching as she adjusts—he adjusts—each moan, grunt, whimper—its own directive, a road map.

He's truthful about it to her. It's been more like five years since he'd last been with a woman. Missions consumed him, his energies focused on other things…like his job. His cars, his bikes, his plane. His guns. Any and everything to distract himself from the cold fact that he had been alone for a long time.

The apartment is cool, but the room is hot—fueled by sex, and passion and the beginnings of something a lot deeper. The walls are soundproof, the floor is solid, but the bed itself is crying out, echoing the call-and-response of lovers.

He's climaxing fast and then—too fast, and her thighs are quaking, her fingers raking down his back, feeling the muscle ripple beneath the skin. The sensation finally sends him over the edge and he comes. Hard.

She follows suit. He's not sure who yelled out, maybe they did together, but when he comes down from his post-coitus induced high, she's still breathing hard, and damn, he is too.

She curls against him, clutching at the sword charm that dangles from his neck, her fingers curled around it, her face buried against his arm, her legs between his.

He pulls her close and kisses her forehead, and they fall into a light sleep. He hasn't slept like this in years.


	6. Chapter 6

**Part VI**

**For three years she believed him to be a government contractor. It was an easy enough cover. It was really only a half-truth. The constant travel, the odd hours. She could understand it. Izzy herself was a lobbyist. She had her own clients, her own business and travels too—California, New York, Washington. **

**.**

It was easy enough to pass it off. Until Vilena.

When he came home, he woke her up with kisses, and she drowsily accepted him into her bed. It wasn't until morning, that Barney realized something was wrong.

"Stop it," she says, curling away from my roaming fingers. I roll over to wrap my arms around her, but when I do, she jumps up from our bed as if she's been burned. I can only sit up at stare at her.

"What's the problem?" I ask, but now she's moving around the room, gathering her clothes from where they fell the night before, slipping into her panties, and scouring for her shoes.

Now I'm up, and trying to calm her down. Trying to get her to stop. But when I stand before her, she ducks away from me each time, she's crying silent tears…what the hell did I do…

Finally, I stop trying to be gentle and just grab her, right as she's trying to slip by me to grab a shoe.

"Izzy, stop. Tell me what's wrong." I've got my arms around her, but she's thrashing, trying to get me to let her lose. Her fists pound my chest, but she won't look at me. I'm trying to figure out where it's all coming from.

"You killed those people! Barney! You killed them!" She's crying hard and for the first time I'm struck completely silent.

In her hands there's a picture. The one I still held from the general's daughter. She's holding a photo of Sandra in the other, and it dawns on me…the assassination's been all over the news. Izzy's not dumb, and she's put two-and-two together. The length of the trip. My "contractor" status…the details have leaked out-not enough to break our covers, but enough to be a dead giveaway to a woman like Isobel. I can't lie. But I can't tell the truth, because it's complicated.

Things got confused. It was more than the assassination—It was what prompted us to do it. What prompted me to do it. I did it, not for love of country. I did it for a woman.

And how do I tell the woman I love that I thought about it...about risking it all, throwing away what was good between us just for one time...

When I saw Sandra I got weak. She took me by surprise and I went back for her. When I looked at Sandra I saw Izzy, an the two melded together for me.

My arms drop to my side and, because she didn't expect it, she's falling backward from her own momentum. Her head hits the floor and immediately, a nasty gash blooms.

My first instinct is to reach out and touch her, but she's already moving away. She painfully gets to her feet and touches her forehead and sees the blood on her fingertips. She looks at me, her eyes big, and sad, as she grabs her purse and moves backward to the door. I'm still standing here, rooted to the spot, and I can't move as I watch this unfold before me.

She pauses at the door and turns to look at me. Now there are tears in her eyes. And she knows that I can't stand to see her cry. "Barney, she whispers, I'm sorry. I'm just scared." And then, she's gone.

I hear the door slam and that it. Now it's just quiet, and the silence screams in my ears.


	7. Chapter 7

**Part VII**

**When it comes to relationships, Barney keeps his close to the chest. He watches as Lee struggles through his own trials with his woman, who, in Barney's personal opinion, isn't worth the time or the investment of emotion.**

He tries telling Lee so, but you can't tell youth anything. He's got to learn the hard way. And Barney knows he's not exactly the best of role models. Relationships have never been his strength, for the simple fact that he's not had very many—at least, those that lasted long enough to be considered such.

He's used to the ribbing, the jokes about the non-existence of a woman for him. He watches, a man apart, as they chase, pursue, or in the case of Lee suffer through love and all its faults.

It's been six months. Six long, grueling months since Izzy left his ass, and as he swigs back another beer, it's as if he's trying to drink away the hole in his art.

Tool's bar is packed on a Saturday night and he's glad for the distraction—even if it's just periphery. He's like the grown up in the room, watching the kids, making sure they don't get into too much trouble. Lee is sitting next to him, watching the brunette with the button-up dress and cowboy boots shake her hips and smile at the bar tender. She turns and throws a smile at their table and Lee smiles back.

Barney just looks and takes another swig of beer as he shakes his head.

"Lee, my friend…" he starts, but Lee interrupts before he has a chance to finish.

"Don't lecture me," he says tersely, before smiling again at Lacy as she wags her fingers at them at the bar and then turns to giggle at something the man next to her has said.

Barney rolls his eyes.

"Don't forget she cheated on you."

Lee shoots him a glare he pretends to not notice.

"It was a half cheat. Besides, you're just jealous because no one likes you."

He scoffs before reaching into his back pocket to pull out a cigar, which he promptly lights. He doesn't bother responding—after all, Lacy's bouncing back over in her too small dress and perches herself on Lee's lap. The rest of the guys make their way slowly back to the table with various women in tow, and Barney realizes that he's got no one. Not that it matters much. The one he wants doesn't want him. And the ones they've got, he won't touch.

It's loud in Tool's bar, smoke filled and sweet-smelling, like spilled liquor and tobacco, and sex. Southern rock and neon lights, blues and laughter, the clink of beer bottles and glass. It's a humid night in New Orleans and it seems all her city's rejects and wantons have wandered into Tool's.

It was his kind of scene, and he relaxed and simply let himself be.

Their table was the one at the back, facing the rest of the bar—force of habit really, to have one's back against a wall so no one could stab you in it. And he had a clear view of the scene before him—bodies dancing, some swaying with the onset of drunk. It was good times, a good night, and he was in a good mood.

All of that lasted for another seven minutes, before the doors swung open again, and he caught the unmistakable view of sultry brown skin and bright red cloth. Even with her back turned to him, he'd know familiar trace of that body anywhere.

She turned her head, a smile on her lips and laughed as she walked into the bar, three friends in tow. Arm in arm they weaved in and out of the crowd and up to the bar. Barney sat back in his seat, almost blending into the wall, taking a long drag on his cigar as he watched her, trying to ignore the burn in his chest.

She was having a good time, he was glad to see it. Wiggling on the stool to the beat, head bent down, talking to her friends—two other women one short and slightly round, the other tall and slim, neither like the woman in the middle.

His brown eyes look almost black as he studies her. He likes what she's wearing. As she stands, he can see her red corset, tight around her waist, her breasts sitting up proudly. Her shoulders and arms are bare, rounded and lean, defined. Those long legs are clad in tight black jeans that emphasize her ass and for a moment, his eyes swim as he remembers what it felt like to hold it in his hands…

Just then, a man approaches, and he finds himself getting angry as he leans in close to Izzy and tries to wrap his arm around her waist. She slips out of his grasp and shakes her head. He's pleased to see the rejection, although the man isn't . He looks pissed and Barney tenses. She doesn't see him, but he sees her, and even if they aren't together he'll be damned if he lets another man-

He's so sucked in, it take him a minute to realize someone's talking to him. He hears snapping noises and blinks to refocus.

"What?"

He blinks and looks around. Tool's snapping his fingers in his face and everyone's looking at him.

"Damn man, for a second you just zoned out," Hale says laughing at him.

He brushes it off, and shakes his head, playing it off. Everyone goes back to conversation. Except for Tool. The bar's namesake has been there the whole time, and sees what he sees. His friend knows more about what's in Barney's head than what he'll admit.

"You alright, brother?" Tool leans over and speaks low, keeping his head tilted toward the bar where Isobel still sits.

Her friends have come and gotten between Isobel and her unwanted suitor and for a moment, Barney's pacified. Izzy looks upset but her friends get rid of their "guest" and Tool gets up to head over and cool the situation. Barney's jaw tightens. He swallows hard, his large hands gripping the bottle of beer in them harder.

He thinks briefly about leaving—but Barney's never been one to cut and run. He considers it cowardly.

Tool nods at the bartenders as he makes his way behind the counter, they're rushing back and forth, filling orders and barking orders. The place is packed, like he likes it, but this time he's only focused on one—the pretty black girl sitting in the middle.

No one can accuse Tool of being chivalrous, but despite his gray streaked hair, and cowhide Stetson hat, he's wiser than he looks.

"Hey pretty lady," he drawls, wagging his eyebrows suggestively as he leans across the counter toward his patron.

She turns to face him, a surprised look on her face that melts into a smile.

"Tool!" she greats and extends her arms for a hug. He pulls her into the embrace, grinning lewdly at her friends, who look aghast.

"Hey babe, long time no see. Drinks for you and your friends on me. What'll it be, ladies?"

Izzy turns to her friends and quickly makes introductions.

He recognizes the tall, skinny redhead. One of her friends from California. The other, he doesn't know.

"Maggie Lane," she fills in for him.

"Tool's one of the first people I met when I moved here," she explains to her friends. "I promise, he's more harmless than he looks," she finishes as they tentatively extend their hands and he plans kisses on them.

"I do bodywork," he explains, in a way that could be taken to mean anything. Actually, it's not a lie. Just depends on what kind of bodies you're talking about…

He slides the ladies three white Russians and as her friends begin to chat with each other and scope the room for potential partners, he takes a moment to talk to Izzy alone.

"How's the lady doing?" He asks, seriously, for once.

"I'm fine, Tool. Working. Pushing bills. The business is going well. I've got some new clients and it looks like the upcoming legislative session is going to be really good. So I can't complain."

She gives him a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes, and he's not fooled.

"You miss him?" He asks, point-blank. He's not one to beat around the bush, and he sees Izzy wince. He feels about guilty.

"She tosses her head back and takes a long sip of her drink. He takes her silence for an answer.

"He doesn't say it. But he misses you too, ya know. You two were good together, babe."

"He lied to me," she says an edge to her voice. He ignores it.

"He lied FOR you. In our business, our enemies always go for the ones we love. That's why we don't get involved. Think about it," he says returning the hardness, and promptly turns back to the bar to fix them three more drinks. He slides them over, gives them all a wink, and slips off.

"Isobel, really? That guy gives me the creeps," Maggie says turning to her with a pinched look on her face.

But Isobel isn't really paying that much attention. Maggie is always full of dramatics and normally fun to be around. But the talk with Tool has changed Isobel's priorities for the moment and right now, her mind is not on the bar, not even on the condensation-laced glass chilling in her hands. Instead, her thoughts are on _him, _and even though the bar is crowded, she feels that he's near. She feels a tingle at the base of her spine, and she has to take a few deep breaths to calm herself. She squeezes her thighs together tight to stem the flood of warmth that's spreading through her lower belly. For the past six months, she's tried hard not to think of Barney, because when she does, her body goes into withdrawal.

She wants him back. But she's too afraid of what that may mean.

Her thoughts are interrupted when a large frame blocks her view and she looks up, and immediately grimaces.

Her unwelcome suitor is back. She stands quickly and tries to wave him away, saying no and quickly moving away from the bar. But he still doesn't get it. He grabs her by the wrist and yanks her, causing her to spill her drink.

All he's managed to do is piss her off.

Isobel Rannick was born and raised in Oakland, California in the valley, on the worst side of town. And while her parents raised her to be a lady, they also taught her how to fight. And when placed in a situation where it's either flight, or fight—her first instinct is to fight. So she reacts purely on that instinct—with well-aimed punch to his face followed by a knee to his groin.

He's doubled over groaning, and Isobel is pissed. She turns once again to walk away, but apparently though in pain, her punches weren't enough to knock him down for long. He grabs her again and yanks her around raising his fist as to hit her.

"Bitch," he yells and raises up to backhand her.

It burns like fire and she's knocked backward into the bar. He raises his hand again to her, but this time, it's blocked as another man intervenes.

Her vision is blurred, her cheek on fire, and while she gets herself together she blinks in time to see…Barney.

He's there, and right now, he's madder than she's ever seen him. The man who hit her is now on the ground and Barney's fists are flying in a sequence of left-right-upper cut, and elbow.

Her attacker is on the ground, and now Barney's turned to her, his features softening up just a bit, but he's still frowning. He takes her face in his hand gently, and looks at the impact zone—it's hot to his touch, and she winces as he brushes it gently and inspects it.

"I'll put ice on it, tonight," she says quietly, looking at his face. It's still right now, but in his eyes she can see everything—the anger, the sadness, the hurt, and…something else, something she knows, because she feels it too…

"I'm taking you home."

It's a matter-of-fact statement, and one that she knows better than to argue with.

He wraps a protective arm around her waist, and guides her through the crowd. It's a lot quieter now, after the fight, and as they walk toward the exit, Tool is in the process of ejecting the drunkard who attacked her.

He's arguing with Tool, screaming at the top of his lungs, and she cringes when she hears "bitch", "whore" and "tramp". He sees them walking away together and suddenly, bursts out laughing.

He gestures toward them and she hears the one word she hates the most.

It comes flying like a knife, directed at her at Barney. And she stops in mid-step. Barney does too. He looks at her, and after a minute, she tugs at his arm, silently pleading for them to just go. But it's already decided. He looks down at her for a moment, a plant a small kiss on her forehead, turns, takes three steps to the drunk, and knocks him out cold.

Tool drags the man's unconscious carcass to the door and throws him out into the back alley.

Once they're outside, the music starts up again, people begin talking and drinking and laughing—and it's as if the fight never happened.

Without a word, Barney helps her onto his bike, and then climbs in front. She leans into his back and wraps her arms around his waist, her uninjured cheek against the soft cotton of his shirt. The bike growls under them, sending out vibrations around her as the pull off into the cool, New Orleans air.

They make their way down the Quarter and turn onto St. Charles, where the music finally fades; the crowds grow smaller until they reach her home. Her street is illuminated by torchlight; the two-story, Gothic Revival home's walkway is lined with small side lights for guidance. They pull up, and he kills the engine, climbs off and helps her down.

They walk quietly up the porch and it's at the door where they stop. The glow from the streetlights, manage to light up everything except for his face, and as she looks at him, he turns to leave.

She reaches out to stop him.

They haven't spoken in months, still aren't speaking now, but as he pulls her close and tilts his head down to kiss her, words aren't needed. Instead, it's like an old dance, comfortable, familiar, welcome and above all, loved.

And as if it had never ended, it picks up, and in the morning, when the sun seeps through the window shades, it shines on two people, curled around each other, asleep on a tangled bed.


	8. Chapter 8

**Part VIII**

**She knows things about him that no one else does. Like how he was married once. It's how he wins her back. How he gets her to understand how hard this is for him, because he's kept himself alone so he wouldn't have to feel that kind of loss again…**

Tool was the one that had introduced him to the work, showed him a better way of making money by "serving his country." He'd gotten into the job during 'Nam, after his unit was decimated in a surprise attack. They'd all been slaughtered—and he'd fought like hell to survive for three weeks in enemy territory, with nothing but a knife and his wits about him.

When he'd finally made it back to camp and eventually back to the states, the army gave him a pat on the back, an honorary discharge and a shitload of medals designed to make him feel like he'd achieved something.

He'd started up a car restoration shop with his slim savings and then he'd met a woman. Tall and willowy, with olive skin that glistened and eyes so dark he felt he could drown in them.

Barney Ross fell in love. He'd married Victoria Ross on February 14, 1972 and a year later, they had their daughter, Natalie Rose. Then the Army had come with a "special offer".

He had a specific set of skills they needed, they'd said. His record was spotless, IQ near genius, field tested and battle approved. HE was the man for the job. It came with a good chunk of change, and that night, as he kissed his baby and his wife, he told himself he was doing it for them.

Their leader, Captain James O'Toole had guided them into what would ultimately become a rat-fuck of monumental proportions. They were out-gunned and out-numbered. Out of a team of 12, only two of them, he and Toole, came out alive. And though the mission was a success, the death toll was high.

When he arrived back home, he found his house on fire. His wife and daughter, trapped inside.

Their team had been sold out by one of their own before they'd ever reached their target. The Colombian drug cartels had their names and the names of their families, and karma had come swiftly, and with a vengeance.

Everything Barney Ross touched turned to ash. And Captain O' Toole, or "Tool" as he preferred to be called, had grown so used to war he'd forgotten how to live in regular society. So Ross let his anger fuel him, and he and Tool went into private business, taking their "skills" and that of others who had been screwed by their governments, with them. They built a highly-specialized operation.

Their rules. Their demands. They trusted no one but each other. Respected no one but each other. And they lived and died by their own particular brand of loyalty. They had built an empire—and yet on every mission, each of his men carried with them the cold, cruel knowledge that their lives could end at any moment—and there would be no one there to grieve for them. No children to carry their names. Every single last one of them was disposable. Disposable heroes. Disposable liabilities. Disposable villains, terrorists. Every one of them was Expendable.

.

Isobel listens quietly as he tells her this. Her hand embraces his as he talks. His voice is low. Steady. Hard with emotion. Slowly, they begin to heal. To try again.


	9. Chapter 9

**Part IX**

**The first mission he takes once they're back together is the worst. Because try as she might, she can't stop worrying about whether he'll come home. **

He's explained to her that he can't stop. That this is his job. It's what he does. But she knows it's deeper than that. Deep down, he loves it. He craves it. He's addicted to the adrenaline, to the challenge—not just the physical feats, but the intellectual side. It's like playing chess with life. It's his calling.

She can't change it—he's been in the life too long. So when he wakes before the sun comes up, and kisses her and tells her he'll be gone for a few weeks—inside, she cries. It hurts to know he can love something more than he does her.

She puts up a brave face. She walks him to the door, and she hugs him. His grip is tight, as he squeezes her, momentarily taking her breath away. He doesn't say goodbye. It's for death, he's told her before, and he's not dead yet. At the time, he said it with a smile that didn't reach his eyes, but she knows that she can't stop him. Only he can stop him, in his own time, at his own moment.

Tool has explained to her that every man has his moment. Barney's has just yet to come.

She's learning to accept it. Most of the time she knows when he's leaving—but it's not knowing when, or if, he's coming back, that's the hardest part.

The introduction to the rest of the team comes slowly and happens at random. Barney splits his time between his shop, and their home. It's technically hers, but he's invested so much time and effort into restoring it, she considers it theirs.

The first person she meets is Yang. And that's because, one day, Barney tells her he's bringing a friend over for dinner. She's curious, but she goes about preparing one of the few things she knows how to cook. A stir-fry. Quick and easy, and hard to mess up.

She hears cars pull up to the driveway and the door open. Heavy-footsteps announce his arrival and that of his friend as they walk into the kitchen where she is.

"Isobel, this is Yang. Yang, Isobel." Barney's introductions are brief, and she reaches out a hand to Yang and he takes it in a shake.

"Nice to meet you," she says with a smile. He looks at Barney, looks at her, and smiles back.

"You too, Izzy."

.

She meets Toll Road and Hale at a bowling outing.

She's just bowled three strikes and a spare and is in the process of reveling in the fact that she's kicking Barney's ass in something. He's sitting back with a beer, and he and Toll Road are exchanging barbs, while her partner, Hale Caesar, is focused—measuring the angle of the ball to that of the arrows pointing the way.

She's cheering on Hale while laughing at Barney's piss-poor showing. Her grandfather taught her how to bowl, and she's been kicking ass and taking names since she was six. There's no way the other guys are winning, although, as soon as Hale bowls a perfect strike, and Barney and Toll Road crack up, she realizes it's going to be an uphill battle to win.

But win she will.

.

Gunner is next and that happens at Barney's shop.

He's working on her car—not the Mercedes, but her charger. It's due for an oil change, and since Barney did the restoration, he feels a sense of ownership to it. Subsequently, it can't go up the street to the Super Lube—that would be sacrilege to Mr. Ross. He's very specific about her car's needs and maintenance and insists on doing it himself.

So it's there, on a slow Sunday afternoon, that Barney's got the car up on the lift and is busy changing the oil as she sits at the top of the stairs in the back that lead to his apartment.

Mountain's "Masters of War" is blaring from the speakers and she's got a book out reading while Barney works.

A jingle at the front of the shop announces a customer and Barney wipes his hands on his jeans and sticks his head out from under the car just long enough to see a tall, blond and slightly disheveled man walk in.

"Gunner!" He calls out, and then steps toward the hulking figure.

Gunner's at least a good five inches taller than Barney, and twice as brawny, but he grins a crooked grin and Barney embraces him in a man-hug and slaps him on the back before turning back to the car.

"There's someone I need you to meet," he says and looks up toward where she is, with her book.

She stands, stretches, the bottom of her shirt inadvertently creeping up to expose her belly. It's extremely hot and humid that day and she's got on a long skirt and a tank top. As she walks down and sees both men looking at her—she kind of wishes she'd worn a bra. It's not like she was expecting to meet anyone that day.

She reaches the bottom of the stairs and walks up to them as Barney introduces her.

"Isobel, this is Gunner. Gunner, this is Isobel. And yes, she's occupied."

It makes her crack up, and Gunner laughs too, before making an exaggerated bow and stutters out a greeting.

She's finding she likes Barney's friends. She knows what they all do, and even with Gunner, who's practically tongue-tied around her, she can see that they're all good men.

.

When she meets Lee, it's not under the best of circumstances.

She's met everyone but the co-captain, and she doesn't push it. She knows of Lee, and she knows that Lee knows of her, but they've never formally met, and she doesn't question Barney about the why's of it. Everything happens according to its own time with her lover, and so she's figured, it just hasn't been the right time.

One night, she's awakened by a strong shock of thunder. It rocks the house and jolts her from sleep. Its then she realizes, she's in the bed alone.

Barney likes to keep late hours, so she gets up, wraps the sheet around her, and walks out of the bedroom and down the hall. The lights are on downstairs, and she figures, that's where he is. She doesn't hear them talking until she walks into the living room and sees two men sitting across from each other, looking deep in conversation.

She turns to go back up the stairs, but Barney's seen her, and while the sheet pretty much hides everything, she still feels awkward meeting his best friend without proper clothes on.

But Barney beckons her over anyway.

He reaches for her, and guides her into his lap.

"Izzy, this is Lee."

She's tired and stifles a yawn as she tries to smile. But something about Lee just looks so sad, and she can't help but feel a bit sorry for him.

"You two need to talk," Barney says, and slides her to the couch as he gets up and leaves the room.

It's quiet, and sort of awkward, and really, not the situation that she thinks she should be in in the wee hours of morning, but for a trained soldier and mercenary, poor Lee looks at a complete loss.

"What's wrong, Lee?" she asks.

She doesn't know him but thinks that for some reason, Barney thinks she's the best to help Lee solve it.

"You're a woman-" he starts, and she tries not to laugh at the obvious turn of phrase.

"So tell me, what do I have to do to prove to this woman that I love her?" He says, before burying his head in his hands.

Now she knows why Barney has done this. Poor Lee is in the same place they once were. But she knows that not every woman will accept this. And as Lee pours out his story with his fiancé, Lacy, she realizes how fortunate she is to have Barney, and how, she too, could be Lacy—if she were at a different point in her life.

And this is how she meets Lee—because she has to tell him the truth—that if it's REALLY love—then he can't push it. And if it's really meant to be, it will be. But if it's not, then it won't. That he can't force a love that's not there.

She's trying to explain it all—the complexities, that she and Barney have been through—seeing as how Barney was Lee a few years ago. But it's hard, and she can tell, he doesn't understand it. But as Lee turns to go, he looks back at them, and there's something in his eyes—maybe…hope? Or maybe he's picturing her as Lacy. And himself in Barney's place. She doesn't know him well enough, but she likes him. And she hopes she's wrong, because she firmly believes he's heading for heartbreak.

At any rate, she likes Lee. And she trusts him, most of all, with Barney's life.

She's not impressed when she meets Lacy.

Barney has told her about the cheat, or rather, as he phrased it, the half-cheat.

He tried to stay neutral, but she can tell Barney really, really, really doesn't like Lacy. That's made clear enough when the boys come back into town, and she meets them all at Tool's bar. She herself has just gotten in—one of those rare times when her travel schedule and Barney's schedule sync up perfectly. She sees the line of bikes outside Tool's and spots Barney's immediately. As she climbs out of her Mercedes, her heart beats a little faster in excitement.

She walks in, clad in skinny jeans tucked into high-heeled, knee-high boots, a sleeveless high-necked silk shirt and leather jacket zipped up. Her hair is unruly this evening—it's been a long trip and the humidity has gotten to it, making it wave up in its natural state and frame her face like a black and brown halo. She checks her watch—a dark brown leather Paneri with a sleek gold frame- a gift from Barney a year ago. He likes watches, extremely expensive ones at that.

It's a Thursday night—the weekend revelers haven't quite made it in, and the working stiffs fill the room. The music is mellow—a little Joe Crocker and Iggy Pop, Bob Dylan.

She sees them in the back, at their usual tables, the cigar smoke already thick from the Cubans they, or rather Barney, loves to smoke.

She hates them, personally, but hell, if being shot, stabbed, smothered, chained, beaten and burned haven't killed Barney yet—she strongly doubts the Cigars will.

She makes her way to the group and is greeted with smiles as the guys move over and make way so she can sit next to Barney.

He's got on a plain white t-shirt, faded blue jeans and heavy boots, and his favorite light-brown leather jacket.

He leans over, gives her a quick peck on the lips, and goes back to conversation. Under the table, her fingers wrap around his as Hale calls out, "give the lady a beer!"

One appears before her and she sips it gently, listening at the friendly banter between the men. Everyone is engaged, and Barney and Lee are snarking at one another as Lee fixates on a woman at the bar.

She turns and smiles his way, blowing a kiss toward their table.

Izzy frowns.

The woman turns, leans over the bar, her low-cut top revealing too much cleavage (in Izzy's opinion) to the drooling bartender and the two men beside her.

This must be Lacy, she thinks, and tries to school her face into one of Barney's neutral expressions. She's not too good at that, though, and he's told her on more than one occasion that he can tell exactly what's going through her head just by the look on her face.

The woman bounces up and they all scoot over to make room for her again as she perches on Lee's lap. The man looks so pleased, but Izzy isn't buying it, and neither, she can tell, is Barney. Her fingers stroke his under the table in their own quiet code of communication and Lee introduces her.

"Lace, this is Izzy, Izzy, this is my fiancé, Lacy."

She looks at Lee and Lee is looking at Lacy and Lacy is looking at her with a smile plastered on her face. She extends her hand and Izzy takes it, smiling a closed lip smile.

"Nice to finally meet you! Lee said Barney had a girlfriend, but I just didn't buy it. Wow. You're beautiful!" she says, and Izzy can tell she means the compliment, but it's the use of "girlfriend" that's not sitting well.

She's more than Barney's "girlfriend". In fact, he's never been her "boyfriend". It's juvenile, but she can see that Lacy just doesn't know any better.

The woman is…Isobel can't find the words.

Barney gives her hand a squeeze and the guys get up- Gunner, Toll Road and Yang, for a round of pool, Hale—to talk to a pretty girl sitting alone at the bar, and Lee and Barney—to step outside. Leaving her with Lacy.

When the men leave, the other woman turns to her and drops her voice.

"So, how long have you and Barney been together?" She asks.

"Seven years."

"How do you do it? I mean, you don't worry that when he's away, there could be someone else?"

"Trust is love. If you don't trust him, you don't love him. It's just like that."

She tries to speak plainly, without giving too much away, and it seems she's struck a nerve, because Lacy looks down, her hair falling into her face. Izzy knows, she's getting close to a truth—whether it'll be good for Lee or not is another matter.

"How do you deal with it?" Lacy looks up at her, her eyes bright with tears and Izzy finds herself feeling just a little sorry for the woman. It's obvious she's not secure in her relationship with Lee. That she's looking for some kind of reassurance, but Izzy has been there, done that—and in the end—she herself knows that the questions Lacy wants answered, she can't give them.

"I love Barney. ALL of Barney. The good. All of the Bad. I love him, and he loves me. And the rest, we just let it be. But that works for us. And it took us seven years. This life isn't for everybody. But you have to be honest- first with yourself. And then, with him."

She leaves it at that. She can't help Lacy, and she can't help Lee. All she can do is be honest. And right now, she honestly, wants to go home. So she gets up, bids Lacy goodbye, waves to the guys still inside, and walks out into the cold, breezy night air.

Lee and Barney turn when they see her.

She walks into Barney's arms, gives him a brief hug, and tells him she'll see him tonight—maybe. Sometimes, he still crashes at the shop.

He tells her he's got some things to finish up tonight—so crashing at the shop it is. But he's quick to say he'll be home before she wakes up. To which she smiles, and climbs into her car and drives off.


	10. Chapter 10

**Part X**

** It's what she calls a lazy Sunday, and they're both at home, back in bed, enjoying bouts of lovemaking, quiet laughter, and simply just being with one another.**

Her stomach is growling, having burned off the breakfast he cooked with their activities. The bed is a mess, the sheets and comforters are on the floor. And now they're in that quiet place between sleep and wake.

His breathing is deep and even, his chest still wrapped in bandages, rising and falling. She's laying on him. He breathes in, and she moves, and he grimaces a bit when she accidentally touches a sore spot.

"Sorry," she offers, shifting position slightly so that her leg slips between one of his. He chuckles at her.

"Trying to go for round four?" He asks, turning is head to kiss to her forehead.

"I'll let you rest." She plants a kiss right back on his lips.

"mmm…" It's a content murmur, a sentiment she completely agrees with. It's been so long since they've had a day like this. A day with no interruptions, nowhere to be, no distractions or urgent calls. It's a rare moment of peace for them and she savors each and every second.

He's got an arm around her, his fingers playing with the curls at the base of her neck. There's something he wants to say, and he wonders how she'll take it.

He's been thinking long and hard about this, knowing he can't continue this lifestyle forever. He doesn't know when the last mission will be, but the days are numbered. And each time he finds himself having to go away, it gets harder and harder for him to leave her bed.

He's got to make a move. And maybe now is the time to tell her what he wants. And what that is, is her. Permanently.

He's got the ring in his pocket, bought the stone back with him from a mission to Russia, and he gave it to Tool to design.

The band is platinum, designed to wrap around the finger. The diamond sits in the middle, pear-shaped, her favorite. It's three carats. It's not an engagement ring—they're too far past that—instead, it's more like a promise. A guarantee.

A long time ago, she once told him how she felt about marriage—about not necessarily wanting a husband, but a partner, a mate. Relationships were a fifty-fifty effort. And he'd waited seven years because, in all honestly, he'd never felt he was living up to his side of the deal.

But something says now is right. And Barney believes in trusting his instinct. So he reaches over, onto the nightstand, and grabs the little white box that's sitting there.

Her eyes are closed, and he can tell she's falling asleep, so he opens the box with one hand, and slips out the ring. Reaching down toward her hand, he slips the ring on. She doesn't notice it. Probably won't until she wakes, but he can see it clearly, shining on her finger. It looks good. Like it belongs there. Like it should have been there all along. _He_ should have been there all along. But at least he's here now.

Maybe it's time they talked about consolidating their assets. And he knows she wants a baby. Maybe he can make that happen for her too. He's old, but he's not dead yet.

Isobel Rannick-Ross. He likes the way it sounds. Like it belongs. Like they belong.

**The End**


End file.
